Lately, I have been traveling with more baggage than I am used to. I am the frazzled, frowning, tight-lipped woman at the airport with jogging pants on—six kids, eight pieces of rolling luggage, three carry-ons—refusing service from an attendant. I am the one with downcast eyes, strained vocal chords, secrets. No more sweet dreams. No lullabies to rock me to sleep…
I see her there, among the shadows of my unconscious mind. She is weeping, fearful. She cuddles comfortably with catastrophe. He haunts me too. Angrily, menacingly, he tiptoes past my twitching eyes. He draws teardrops from the well of disaster that drowns my delusions. He is worthless. She is better than she believes.
I hear the creaking of a clock, its hands racing too quickly to catch up with my conclusions. Kill him. Lock him up and throw away the key. Save her. Save her. Save her.
…Time to exhale. Pay the man to carry my bags to the car. Unpack the luggage I never needed to bring. Rearrange that which I did: Strength. Love. Peace. Silent Salvation.
As I watched our cruise ship sail away from the shore in Nassau, my mind began to wander. It meandered down Memory Lane--a street I seldom succumb to. For some reason, I kept thinking about Mark, my Step-Dad. As I watched my friends dance, drinks in hand, to The Electric Slide, Cupid Shuffle, and Girls Just Wanna Have Fun, and my mom do the sprinkler to some 1970s hit that never should have been played on that boat anyway, my thoughts were on him. I miss him. It's rare that--in life--one meets someone so willing to help others, so willing to accept another person's children, so willing to love. Mark was, undoubtedly, the best thing that ever happened to my Mom. Though I am sure that they had their ups and downs, he showed her things that she never had the opportunity to experience before him. He took her places she never knew existed. He handed her the world--silver platter and spoon. And then, he was gone.
100 miles per hour in a Cadillac on a four lane street; one of my students makes me tell him the story. He was driving recklessly down Waters Avenue, and I feel the need to let him know that everything can end if he's not careful. No senior prom. No mother clapping for him as he walks across the stage--graduation--a milestone. No "Daddy, I am happy you're home. Will you play with me?!" It only takes a millisecond for things to change--the clip of a bumper, the depression of brakes, a light turning another color too quickly. He doesn't understand. He is seventeen and invincible. He is living life the way the magazines he reads and the rap songs he has memorized the lyrics to tell him to live--"In the Ferrari or Jaguar/ switchin' four lanes/ With the top down screamin' out/ Money ain't a thang." He thinks--like Lil' Wayne--"I am not a human being." What he doesn't know and/or fails to recognize is that it doesn't take but a second--stealing a glance at a text message your girl sent you, laughing at a joke your friend in the backseat couldn't wait to tell, him thinking it's okay to drive like an asshole on a busy road in a town called Tampa populated by nearly 350,000 people. Which one of those residents will be there when he is carried away in a casket? Who will make the phone call to Emergency Services? What will all of his friends say at school the next day?
He knows better. He says he won't do it again, but he's lying. He is seventeen, carefree, and confident. Nothing will ever happen to him. Right?
Recall the last time you took a trip. Do you remember the moment when you knew it was time to go home? Do you remember missing your own bed, the comfort of your Sealy Posturepedic pillows? Do you remember wishing you could climb into your closet to search for clothing instead of sifting through your sloven suitcase (now a wild pile of both soiled and unused apparel)? I remember it. Every time I travel 'round the world with my students or take a trip with my Honey Rabbit and a few friends, I start to feel it. Sometimes, I actually embark on mental journeys home. I picture myself on a plane, then cuddled up with my favorite blanket, my fat dog (Rocky), my fuzzy slippers, and a perfect glass of Pinot Grigio. It isn't that I hate being with them or that I am tired of the time we are spending together, I just want to be elsewhere. It isn't that I don't appreciate my experience abroad, I am just ready for it to be over with. It's not personal. Sometimes, it just happens. And, despite the fact that I am not currently shacked up in a European hotel room that contains a twin sized bed too short for my six feet, a bidet that makes me question the cleanliness standards, a shower so small I can hardly shut its door, and a fan that was clearly manufactured in 1967 (because the hotel has no air conditioning), I still feel that feeling. I have already left where I am, and I, though quite reluctantly, have already started the journey to where I want to be.
Right now, I am contemplating one of the most important career decisions I will probably ever have to make--leaving my classroom. Though the thought envelops me in discomfort, fear, and sadness--in some ways--I feel I have already gone. Regardless of the fact that I pour my heart and soul into every lesson I create, that I tear up at the thought of leaving behind my current kids, and that I look lovingly at my book shelves and wonder, "Who will read them now?", I have started that walk. I have already packed my suitcase (unsure of how many pairs of jeans and t-shirts I should include). I have already purchased the tickets (one-way, no return). I have already taken a taxi to the airport and started my walk down the breezeway that leads to the plane (it's cold, I should have worn a jacket). I have already requested my seat-belt extender (those fucking planes never fit my big ass). And, I have already curled up with the latest Jodi Picoult--snug against the window, arm rest down (I wouldn't want to touch a stranger).
I have already decided. There is more out there for me--all of it involves helping kids, all of it involves closing my classroom door (but always looking back). I can't forget where I came from especially with where I am going...
This is Derek and I in Las Vegas. It's the day before we left, but in our minds, we'd been home for at least a day or two.
This is my students and I in front of the Parthenon in Athens, Greece. Though we were clearly happy and jamming out, we were tired. In my mind, I had been home for nearly three days.
This is a picture we took from the plane on our way to Las Vegas. I wonder how many valleys and canyons I will have to travel through to arrive safely to my destination.
This is me. It is a video that one of my students took, and in turn, uploaded to YouTube. ;)
If you have ever traveled abroad, I am sure you can remember the rise of the buildings as you exited the plane, the sweet scent of unfamiliar territory that tickled your nose, the wonderment that rushed through your body as you climbed mountains and towers you never knew existed, posed in front of castles you only dreamed you'd visit, and danced with bagpipers in the middle of a rainy street in Edinburgh. You can probably remember the nescience that you first felt and the comfort that only took a few hours to acquire.
I can travel on the Parisian subway in my sleep. Sometimes, I do. Charles de Gaulle-Etoile to Champ-de-Mars-Tour-Eiffel. I can trace the route on the palm of my hand, plan the adventure while peering into the darkness of my dreams. And, I miss it like I miss her. I love it like I love her. Makenzie Jayde. Born January 1, 2010 at 1:33 in the morning, seven pounds, six ounces, nineteen and a half inches long--my idea of perfection--an angel swathed in hospital blankets and her father's kisses.
She is my Eiffel Tower. She is my Diamond Head Volcano. She is my Acropolis. She is my Mount Pilatus. She is my pink President's House. She is my Big Ben. She is my Alhambra. She is my Danube River. She is my Malahide. She is my Statue of Liberty. She gives me freedom. Her tiny hands are the anchor at my Ellis Island. Her small feet--the waves that toss me wildly about. Her sweet smile--my ticket to salvation.
Yesterday, I felt inspired. Today, I am apprehensive. I am unsure of the time commitment this blog will require of me, but I am determined--no matter what--to start and finish it, whatever that may mean.
I am unsure of what I will write about. I thought about taking readers on a journey around the globe--showing them pictures of where I have been, writing about the experiences I have had with the people I've met. But, I am not sure that would do this blog (or any of its readers) any justice. I'll save that for friends like Kath, who have experienced far more abroad than I will probably ever have the opportunity to.
Therefore, I sit--contemplating. Hopefully, I will figure it all out. Truthfully, I am sure I will. Sometimes, I am just weird like that.
But, it will come to me. This blog will take form, and we will embark--together--on this journey of words and thoughts.
I am the empty suitcase you were too tired to pack the night before your big trip. I am the TSA safety lock you still can't find the key for. I am the duffel bag you left by the door--too much to carry at one time. I am your travel tickets--tucked tightly away with your itinerary. I am your brand new passport--blank baby blue pages you yearn to have stamped. I am an expeditionist, the girl who Will Travel Lightly.
